Past Lessons
by Ice-chan Queen of Soy
Summary: The past returns for Loison Layne as she uncovers a hidden treasure in her closet...


"Past Lessons"  
  
Notes: Hello! This is...a very odd story. You see, it was originally an English assignment: we had to take a comic/cartoon character and write a very short autobiography about them - the trick was to blend a bit of ourselves in there. So, I picked Lois Lane. Since we had to re-name her to fit our own names, her name is now Loison Layne (can you guess what mine is??). Bearing that in mind, I hereby present to you this strange story.  
  
Disclaimer: Lois Lane, Superman, Perry White, and Angela Chen are property of Warner Brothers and DC comics; Loison Layne and her past, however, came from MY head and mine alone.  
  
-~-~-~  
  
Mother always said that the best thing to do when you were in a rotten mood was to clean. Personally, I went for chocolate instead. Either a Munchy-Crunchy Monster Chocolate-Chocolate candy bar or Rocky Road ice cream. But nothing else.  
  
So, why was I mopping the kitchen floor now, you ask? Well, it's simple: I ran out of junk food. Besides, sitting around eating chocolate all day isn't exactly doing much. And I *needed* to do something. I never did like this whole `vacation' thing. It wasn't even a vacation, really; more like a lockout than anything. Perry White, my editor, said I needed a break. The newspaper would get along without me for a week or two...A week or two, ha! As if I would sit in my house with nothing to do but boring, boring cleaning for that long! Just wait, Perry. I'll be on to a story in no time and reclaim my desk at the Planet. Just you wait.  
  
Ugh, this whole thing was such a mess. Too many tabloid journalists in the world. Seriously, though, tabloids should be banned. That's why I'm on `vacation' right now. Angela Chen, being the arrogant idiot she is, saw Superman and I...well...*talking.* Then she had to make up this whole story about how Superman and I were...attracted to each other -- and we weren't, of course! Okay, so the man had gorgeous dark hair and strong arms, but *plenty* of people think that! Anyway, did it ever occur to Angela that I was *thanking* him for saving my life (yet again)? Nope, of course not. And she had to let the whole world in on her crazy theory just to boost her ratings. If I could only get away with ripping out her hair, boy, would that make a story...  
  
I slammed the mop into the floor, thinking of the many ways I could get revenge on this brain dead, granola-crunching, superficial, fluffy airhead rival. Hardly a rival, even; she could never acquire the smarts to compete with me. Now, if you want to talk about worthy rivals, Clark Kent's your man: the guy was honest, and sharp as a knife. Hard to believe that he comes from Kansas. (I admit it, I'm not from Metropolis either -- New York, actually -- but God, *Kansas*?) I always tease him about it, true, but he proved to me when I first met him that he could be a tough reporter. Not arrogant like me, but tough enough. He's basically a nice guy, humble, but not my type. I want mystery. I want adventure.  
  
The floor shined, now clean. I took a bottle of Windex from the bottom sink cabinet and sprayed it on the TV screen.  
  
Oh, this certainly was exciting.  
  
I sighed. Mother's theory of Cleaning in Boredom was not working. But at least the kitchen floor was clean. So was the TV -- I could actually see the pictures clearly when it was on. Unfortunately, nothing was on.  
  
I wandered into my bedroom and gazed tiredly at the double doors of my closet. Might as well clean it out. I really was sloppy, and I had been meaning to clean out the closet for some time now...I just didn't know I would do it *now.* Bracing myself for whatever perils lay ahead, I slowly pulled the doors open, and as I did so I could feel the clothes building up on the other side. I quickly closed it again. Hey, I don't have time to clean! I'm always out looking, snooping for stories as Ms. Loison Layne, the clever raven-haired and green-eyed journalist. It's a busy life, unlike this unwanted `vacation.'  
  
On the count of three, I swung the doors open and stepped to the side, and out tumbled all my clothes. Ah, the adventures in cleaning your house. You never know what you might find.  
  
Only I was right, because I saw something I really *didn't* know I would find.  
  
After climbing over the heaps of clothing, I managed to make it to the very back of the closet, where there sat an old trunk made out of cedar wood. The metal handles were rusted, and the locks, also rusted, were undone. Carefully, I lifted the top open, traces of old dust falling as it rose.  
  
Inside there were old papers, old but not quite oxidized, and they were scattered everywhere. The faded words on them were in sloppy print, but some of them sloppy script: I recognized them as my own handwriting, though they were impossible to read. Beneath the pile were books -- diaries. A bright red book caught my eye -- they came in quite a few different colors, actually -- and I picked it out and ran my hands along the hard cover.  
  
They were *my* diaries.  
  
Perhaps I should clean more often.  
  
I bit my lip as I opened the book to a random page. My hands shook as they stroked the faded words... Oh honestly, Layne, what are you afraid of? Okay, a harmless stroll down memory lane; at least it would give me something to do. And look, I got out of cleaning the closet! Biting my lip more, I read the vague words to myself:  
  
September 21^st, 1985  
  
Dear Journal,  
  
Today was just an ordinary day at school -- oh, wait, it wasn't a normal day! Well it was, but it wasn't. It was semi-exciting. Remember that boy Wayne who I beat up last week and got detention for? Well, he finally got on this kid's last nerve when he was teasing him and the kid told the teacher on him and the teacher actually believed him. I -- word I can't make out -- happen before. And then -- something, something, something -- boy, do I hate school! The journalism teacher, Mr. Resenbald, is boring. He makes us do a lot of work and then he talks, I don't even pay attention. Math is okay, though. I always did like figuring out the problems in an orderly fashion. Write tomorrow,  
  
~Loison  
  
This was strange indeed. I remember liking my journalism teacher a lot...in fact, he first inspired me to become a journalist, believe it or not. After we had completed our work, he'd tell us about his own adventures as a journalist, and I used to listen with open ears. Or so I thought.  
  
I flipped through some more pages and continued to read:  
  
October 3^rd, 1985  
  
Dear Journal,  
  
You know what I realized? I've been using the word `today' at the start of every journal entry. Well I suppose that's a step up from `hello,' but if I want to be a writer when I grow up, I got to use more creative words than that. So let's see...uh...Good afternoon! No. Hiya! No. Konnichiwa! Definitely no. Oh well, I'll figure something out.  
  
We got our report cards today. Math, 95. English, 96. Social Studies, 85. Science, 90. And Journalism...65. With a note saying that I failed to complete my homeworks. I am so dead it is not even funny. Mom and Dad hit the roof when they found out. I'm grounded with no friends, no TV, no nothing until they get a phone call from Mr. Resenbald, saying how my work has improved. I am not going to do this! They can't force me!!!  
  
Anyway, my delicious prison dinner is getting cold. Goodnight,  
  
Loison  
  
I couldn't help but crack up at that entry. I had forgotten all about failing journalism! That must be because I'm a renowned journalist today, and I don't see how I could have ever hated it. If Angela Chen got her hands on this, what would that do to my career?  
  
Shut up, Layne, it's not a big deal! Fifteen years ago! Grow up!  
  
I flipped to another entry:  
  
October 4^th, 1985  
  
Dear Journal,  
  
This will probably be a short entry. Nothing special. Why? Well, the answer is simply due to a significant disease that seems to affect all kids between the ages of eleven and seventeen and causes them to have the perpetual thought that there is nothing to do except sit around and play with your hair until you crack. In other words, I'M BORED!!!!!!!  
  
Told you this would be short.  
  
~Loison  
  
November 1^st, 1985  
  
Dear Journal,  
  
I finally cracked. I got off my butt and did my stupid journalism work. And you know what? The teacher really did call me up and told my parents of my progress. NO MORE GROUNDEDNESS!!!!!! I AM SO HAPPY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Talk to you later,  
  
~Loison  
  
I read more and more, and everything started coming back to me. Of course, I hated Mr. Resenbald! I hated his guts more than anything! For shallow reasons, though: I never liked doing a lot of work when I was a kid, contradictory to my workaholic attitude now. Hmm...Maybe he was what snapped me out of laziness? Come to think of it, I did really well in high school in college. And guess what I majored in? Yep, you guessed it, journalism.  
  
The rest of the morning I spent sitting there, reading and thinking back. Gosh, I had no idea what I was like at thirteen; I had never looked at my diaries until now. Okay, so my writing was horrible compared to now, but I was a *kid*, so there. I was thinking of other things too, though. I always remembered being self-conscious and not very confident, but I also had strong opinions, my main point being not to follow the crowd. And I also remember I was on a school newspaper...or was that in high school? I quickly skimmed the diary until I found something along those lines near the end of the book.  
  
May 18^th, 1986  
  
Dear Journal,  
  
Ladies and gentlemen, Loison Layne has done it again!!! This is the second time in two weeks when I wrote a column in that school newspaper. YES!!!! Well, Mr. Resenbald said I had some kinda talent, and I guess he was write. The kids still hate me -- something -- after that whole article about -- something -- criticism. Oh well, don't care. When I...  
  
The rest was impossible to read. God, I had lousy handwriting.  
  
Well, from the looks of it, I guess I got over the load of homework and learned that maybe -- just maybe -- sulking was a waste of time.  
  
Can we say `hypocrite'?  
  
I smacked my forehead for being so stupid. I was sulking right now! Sitting around the house, cleaning random junk, muttering curses about Angela Chen and Perry White. I wasn't acting like Loison Layne, reporter extraordinaire. Was I not the star of the Daily Planet? Did I not always get the scoop? Of course. And who would expect such a talented and devoted person to sit around moping in the house for lack of chocolates? Certainly not me.  
  
I returned the diaries and papers back to the cedar trunk and shut it. Then I piled some clothes on it to conceal it (though why I'm not sure -- an insecurity. So sue me.). I shut the closet, raced into the shower (no hot water, which only got me more determined and angry), dressed, and in less than thirty-five minutes was down at the Planet. My colleagues were surprised to see me -- especially Clark -- but I paid very little attention as I darted into Perry's office.  
  
Needless to say, Perry was stunned to see me, and by my expression, he knew I meant business.  
  
"Ah, Loison," he started, "why are you here? I thought I gave you a vacation."  
  
"Well now I'm taking a vacation from my vacation," I said. "I have to come back! Look, Perry, the rumors aren't going to go away, and neither am I. Besides, look at your headlines! Come on, it's stuff like, `Intergang thugs beat up little girl.' Without me, your paper is going to drop flat!"  
  
Perry White sighed and for a moment he looked old and wise and tired. But I always could convince him to let take certain advantages with my job, so I was confident that I would win. I *always* win.  
  
"Loison," he said, "you are right. This won't stop the rumors, and heck, and we need all the help we can get. Why, I wouldn't sell you out for Elvis Presley's autograph!" -- and that's saying a lot, let me tell you -- "I just thought you might like a little break. A chance to relax for a while..." He flashed a grin at me. "Well, when have I ever known you to relax, anyway?"  
  
I said, "I hope you haven't; otherwise, I'd be losing my touch."  
  
"That can never happen," he said.  
  
"No, it can't," I agreed.  
  
So, I was officially back on the job. The only problem was that it was getting late in the afternoon now, and everyone would be going home soon; so I took the rest of the day off with intentions of coming back the next day. At home, I went back to the cedar chest and pulled out more journals -- from eighth grade to high school I had been writing. In college I just stopped, because I was piled with so much work that I didn't have any spare time: and, of course, I was so fiercely competitive by the time I reached college that I was prepared.  
  
Upon reading more of this, I figured out at that I was, in fact, a brat. Well, I knew it actually, but now my suspicions were confirmed. And not bratty to a point where I wondered how my parents could handle me...in fact, I was more naïve than anything. This was the main element that made me so different from myself as a child to how I am now.  
  
One day, I decided, I was going to go visit him. Tracking him down would be easy enough -- I was an investigative reporter, was I not? The hard part would be re-introducing myself: would he remember me? Or is he now senile? I certainly hope not.  
  
So, that evening, I actually did track him down. Hey, I had the rest of what remained of this day, and I wasn't going to turn back to my cleaning (in fact, I think I'll get a maid). And sure enough, there he was: 357 Ocean Avenue, Brooklyn, New York. Perfect! I could just hope the next flight to JFK tomorrow and--  
  
Oh, wait. I forgot. I used up my vacation time already.  
  
I really need to learn to make the most of my time off. Now I have to wait until summer. Terrific. 


End file.
